Father of Lies
by Hermione Prime
Summary: Tom Riddle leads a double life, famous politician by day and Lord Voldemort by night. Harry Potter is about to disrupt his life by convincing the world that he is Tom's mistake of a son, the by-product of one night the young Dark Lord was drunk and sixteen. Thus follows one of the biggest scandals of all time. Oh, Harry is going to enjoy messing things up for Riddle. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Started a new pet project. Gotta finish Black Coat, I know, but this will probably help me with the creative juices. :D And who knows? It might be enjoyable. Just bear with me for a while._

* * *

Chapter One

"Sir, there is a boy waiting outside who wants to see you."

Tom Riddle barely looked up from his paperwork. Interruptions, interruptions. He took them all in stride with a charming smile, every day, every week, and every year.

It was tedious but necessary. But it paid off.

The charismatic politicians were the favourite ones, especially the young ones who brought in refreshing new ideas. If there was anything Tom had, it was new ideas.

And in his line of work, a pretty face was a bonus.

Still … just because he had to be at his most courteous in front of the cameras did not mean he had the patience to deal with children who wanted his autograph.

His secretary was still standing there, waiting for his response.

Tom itched to seize his wand and curse him. It had been a long day, the damned paperwork was getting on his nerves, and he had no intention of dealing with overly enthusiastic fans. If his secretary couldn't even get rid of a child, Tom had no idea why the man even bothered to look for a job.

"Does he have an appointment?"

"No –"

"Then I do not want to see him," Tom said shortly. "Tell him I'm busy."

"But Mister Riddle –"

"Shut the door on your way out."

"I'm not sure dismissing the boy would be a good idea –"

If he was the type to lose his composure, Tom would have slammed the useless man against the wall with a wand pressed at his throat.

None of his followers ever dared to contradict him.

"It's just that, sir, the boy claims to be related to you," his secretary explained hastily, seeming to catch onto his unravelling tolerance.

… That was a surprise.

It certainly didn't happen every day.

Doubtless, the boy was lying, but …

"Distantly?"

"No, sir."

Tom's eyebrows went up. "Ah, a close relative then. And he has never introduced himself until now. How close, exactly?"

His secretary looked hesitant. "Er, he says he is your son."

At first, Tom thought he had misheard. He had no son. He'd never even had a long term girlfriend let alone a blasted child! There was no time for an emotion as pathetic as love when he had followers to lead and a world to take by storm.

This was ridiculous.

He laughed softly. "Tell him to pull a prank on someone else."

"Sir …" His secretary looked uncomfortable in his own skin. "Admittedly, he does look like you. I mean, you both have dark hair. I suppose it could be a coincidence, but if you stood side by side …"

Riddle suppressed a sigh.

"Let in him then."

The sooner he got this over and done with, the better. Perhaps a distraction would allow his mind to focus better.

Tom closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. Living two lives meant all work and no sleep. Of course there had to be sacrifices, but sometimes, he entertained the thought of a long break. Unfortunately, rest was the one thing he could not afford.

...

It seemed to Harry as though hours had passed, even though he knew it had only been mere minutes, when the secretary stepped out of Voldemort's office. Tom Riddle's office.

His heart was thumping so wildly in his chest that he thought anyone within a two hundred metre radius would hear it.

He was about to walk, willingly no less, right into the lair of the Dark Lord, and declare himself as Riddle's non-existent son.

Talk about being suicidal. God, he would probably have a higher chance of survival if he signed his own death warrant.

For the first time in his life, Harry wondered if he should follow Dumbledore's instructions. This was either going to be the world's most genius plan, or it was going to be a failure from the start. He wanted to groan.

This was not how he wanted to die, in another time, pretending to be Voldemort's son while trying to carve out a different future so that a war and genocide never happened.

It was so damned complicated.  
He couldn't even get his own mind around it.

And somehow, according to Dumbledore, his first mission was to convince the world he was the spawn of the devil.

"Mister Riddle is ready for you," the secretary said, offering him a smile.

Harry barely managed to return it.

He straightened his shoulders and yanked up his Occlumency shields. They were fragile, nowhere as strong as Harry would have liked, and he was sure his mind would not be able to keep Riddle out if he tried to get in. Still, it was better than nothing.

He turned on his heels and marched into the room before he could change his mind.

Riddle was sitting behind a mahogany desk, hands folded, in pristine robes, looking just as handsome as his diary self if slightly older. He was nothing like Voldemort, as least in looks. Harry couldn't help but wonder how many Horcruxes he had, or if he hadn't even split his soul yet.

The eyes followed Harry as he approached, inspecting him. They were so _blue_. Huh. Not red yet.

Harry felt like he was going to be sick, and bile rose up his throat, but he choked out the word anyway, "Father."

That was the best he could do, and even that was too much. Saying 'dad' was impossible.

Riddle raised his eyebrows.

"I-I've been looking forward to seeing you."

The eyebrows rose higher.

Harry wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. Probably the latter. He had the honour of convincing the man himself that he was his bastard son. How wonderful.

"Er –"

"You realise you look sixteen," Riddle said flatly.

He never realised how talented the young Dark Lord was at guessing ages. Full marks.

"I-I'm fourteen, actually."

That was a lie.

"Are you?" came the silken response. "You know what that insinuates, don't you? I am only thirty. How can it be that I have a fourteen year old son that I have never heard of before, let alone seen?"

Harry knew very well what it insinuated. The thought of a young, sixteen-year-old Dark Lord doing _that _was enough to make him gag.

"I was going to ask you that, Riddle," Harry said. He immediately realised his mistake.

"Riddle?" the devil in front of him inquired sweetly. "Not 'father' anymore?"

"Probably not appropriate to call you that until you claim me," Harry muttered, hoping to cover up his slipup. "I was hoping you would know who she is."

"She?"

"My mother," Harry said. "The girl you don't even have the courtesy to remember."

There, hopefully that sounded like a boy who was bitter towards his father rather than the pure loathing he truly felt. He bit back a laugh at the revolted expression on Riddle's face.

"Pardon me?" Riddle looked like he had swallowed something nauseating. He took a sip of water from a glass.

"I know I'm a mistake," Harry said. "But I am your mistake."

After a moment of silence, Riddle seemed to regain his composure. "You are not my mistake," he said. "I do not _make_ mistakes."

"So it wasn't after a night of partying in the Slytherin dorm?" Harry asked, pulling an innocent expression. "It wasn't when you were drunk on alcohol? You say I am not a mistake. Then why did you leave me?"

The young Dark Lord looked furious.  
_"You are not mine. And I do not party or get drunk."_

"You are in denial."

Harry watched his eyes blaze. For the first time, Riddle looked at a loss for words. He opened his mouth several times, all the while glaring at Harry. His disgust was blatant.

"Tell me, is this a dare? Do you think it is _funny_ to brag about this with your friends?" Riddle came across no less deadly than a viper prepared to strike. "If you continue to dally in my office, your parents will have a lawsuit on their hands."

Harry smirked. "You're going to sue yourself?"

"You –"

"You have to take responsibility for your mistakes when you were sixteen and young and foolish. And drunk." Harry took a deep breath. He was sure he would pay for this later but everything depended on this. "I want to live with you."

_"Pardon me?"_

"I want to live with you."

He almost winced. God, what was he saying? He didn't want to live with Tom Bloody Riddle! But he had to do this. Take one for the team. This was for the Greater Good.

"You are wasting my time," came the cold reply. "Can you imagine the speculation if a teenager suddenly moves in with me? They may think –"

"Think what? That I'm your fourteen-year-old son? They'd be right."

"You are not living with me."

"You are breaking my heart," Harry said bitingly.

"I have more important things to worry about."

"You are such a great father."

"I don't expect to win Father of the Year award and neither do I want to."

"Do you want to win the Youngest Politician to Get a Girl Pregnant award?"

Riddle's head snapped towards him so fast that Harry thought he would get whiplash. He swore the temperature in the room suddenly dropped by a few degrees.

"You have quite the quick tongue … but I am a busy man."

"Too busy for me?"

If looks could kill, Harry knew he would have been slaughtered right on the spot. He was doing this for Dumbledore, he told himself.

"Charles! Show him the way out."

The secretary came inside, flustered. He'd obviously heard everything. Before Charles could reach him, Harry strode forward, seized a paperweight from Riddle's desk, pitched his arm back and threw it as hard as he could at Riddle.

Riddle's eyes widened, and he only just deflected it.

The paperweight was sent skittering to the floor.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," Charles said. "Harry – it's Harry, right? – why don't you come with me?"

Harry went without giving Riddle a second glance.

He thought it went rather well considering everything.

Riddle might not accept him, but this wasn't the end of this.

If Riddle was a nicer person, or if he hadn't murdered his parents, Harry might have found a bit of sympathy for him for what was to come. But as if was, he felt amused in spite of everything. The press was going to have a field day with this.

...

As soon as the dratted teen left, Tom closed his eyes and inhaled. If he was a lesser man, he might have buried his head in his arms.

He was certain the boy wasn't his, but he could only imagine the mess if word got out. The paparazzi, the media, his political opposition … And his Death Eaters.

His followers were easy to control and they followed him because he was powerful. It would be _inconvenient_ if they were to suddenly doubt his judgement and power. If they learned that their lord had a child at _sixteen_ – regardless of whether it was true or not – the seed of doubt would be planted.

Tom picked up his quill again, ignoring the headache.

The boy was probably nothing.

He had work to do.

* * *

_Dun dun dun :P The idea of Riddle having Harry at sixteen is what? Disturbing? Funny? Awkward? Tell me._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Glad we could meet up," the woman chirped, taking his hand and shaking it fervently. "How's your day? Mine's been good, very good."

Harry glanced at her. His jaws dropped. He had the oddest sense of déjà vu. Her blond curls ran as far as her chin before stopping. There was red lipstick smeared across her lips, bringing out her sharp chin and gleaming eyes.

If he closed his eyes, it was all too easy to imagine Rita Skeeter sitting opposite him.

"How should I address you, Mister …?"

His past experiences taught him to be wary around journalists, but this time round, he was primed and ready to go.

They were like sharks in the water with an eye out for blood. This was going to be so simple. All Harry had to do was nick Riddle in the side and spill some blood. And the sharks would swarm and feed.

The journalists wanted dirt on Riddle, so he would give them plenty of it.

"Harry Riddle – but I'd prefer it if you just called me Harry."

The woman inhaled dramatically. "Ooh, Riddle, is it? Is that a coincidence? Or is there something more than meets the eye?"

Harry took a sip of his tea.

"Is there a secret shifting beneath your skin? What mysteries lurk in your mind?" She leaned across the table and took his wrist.

He grinned. "Actually, that's what I was hoping to tell you."

"Oh yes?"

From the corner of his eye, Harry spotted a Quick Quotes Quill poised to write. He was suddenly hit by an urge to laugh. Oh, this was brilliant. Tom was about to find all the tables turning.

"Tom Riddle is my father."

There was a sudden flurry of action as the quill moved so fast across the parchment that it became a blur. Harry pretended to be oblivious.

As it moved down the page, he glimpsed the word 'scandalous' and 'devastated'.

It took him no small amount of effort to school his face into a somewhat neutral expression.

"He … hasn't claimed you yet?"

Lips twitching, Harry treated her to his best 'devastated' face. "I guess he isn't so taken with his bastard son. I'm a mistake."

"You poor, poor thing."

Despite her sympathetic words, Harry could pick out the sheer delight in her voice. Like a cat greeted with a plate of canaries. He couldn't help but be amused.

"I never asked to be his son."

"I know, dear."

"He asked his secretary to throw me out of his office."

"Who?"

"My _father_."

The woman practically choked on her own excitement.

Much to Harry's glee, he could now make out the quill writing down 'brutal', 'denial' and 'cold-hearted, cutthroat, bastard of a father'. What a nice pun. He never realised how useful Quick Quotes Quills could be.

Perhaps he should get one of his own.

Riddle was about to be hailed with a nasty surprise when the Daily Prophet came out.

"What exactly did he say to you when you confessed?"

"I believe it was 'I have more important things to worry about'."

"How … cruel."

Harry looked down at his hands. "He's probably a very busy man."

The quill had started a new paragraph: 'The poor child divides his time between choking out the words, avoiding my eyes, and trying to find an explanation for his father ruthlessly abandoning him. It is hard to decide which is worse: our beloved politician heartthrob becoming a baby daddy at sixteen or still refusing to look after his son fourteen years later.'

Seeing Voldemort and 'baby daddy' in the same sentence was the last straw. It was impossible to control his laughter this time.

Harry spluttered helplessly into his cup of tea.

Yes, Riddle was about to get a very, very nasty surprise. He didn't envy Riddle's publicist one bit.

The journalist kept throwing questions at him, determined to get all the juicy details – and Harry was more than willing to answer.

Two hours later, he stood 'shakily' to take her hand. "Thank you so much for listening."

"Aw, you know I'm here for you, don't you?" the woman said. "Once we get this out there, I can guarantee you that he'll be begging to take you in by the end of the week. Or he risks the public turning against him."

Harry hid a smirk.

"My name is Ruth Skeeter, by the way."

He should have known.

-0O0-

Tom was nursing a cup of coffee as he settled into his chair when he was graced with his secretary's inopportune timing.

The moment he caught sight of the Daily Prophet's headline – **Tom Riddle: Pretty Politician or Problem Papa?** – he was coughing up coffee and frantically dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief. He looked down and saw that the cup was smashed to china shards on the floor.

"I'll clean it up, sir," Charles muttered.

It took him longer than usual to regain his composure.

Tom reached across and seized his secretary by the wrist. "What is the meaning of this?"

It was thanks to his immense self-control that he managed to keep the fury out of his voice, at least enough so that Charles didn't immediately drop to the floor in a dead faint.

"Uh, yes, I, um, I think you should give it a read, sir," the man fumbled. "I-I'll owl your publicist straightaway to see if we can somehow … limit the damage."

Tom felt anger coursing through his veins.

That brat from yesterday had certainly acted fast.

His wand practically throbbed with heat in his sleeve. He didn't know if he could restrain himself from cursing the boy if he dared to show his face again – which, Tom suspected, he would do soon enough.

Cursing him wouldn't help matters.

Perhaps he could get one of his Death Eaters to do something …

But no, that would be too obvious.

_'__Our beloved politician, who has earned the title 'heartthrob' and hundreds of young witches' devotion, has been revealed to have engaged in a drunken affair with an unnamed lady at sixteen. His illegitimate son, Harry Riddle, is fourteen this year.'_

Tom hissed under his breath.

He skimmed down the page as words jumped out at him: 'in deep denial', 'rich but rash', '_playboy_'?! 'irresponsible', 'turning a cold shoulder to the son he seems an unworthy mistake'.

With a flick of his wand, the newspaper was on fire.

His reputation was at stake here. A son could ruin everything. Alarm bells were ringing in his head. If he got his hands on Harry _Riddle_, he was going to make that dratted child regret everything. This was abysmal.

His secretary stood in the corner, shaking like a leaf.

"It's going to take an army to tidy up this mess," Tom said. "Where are my lawyers?"

"A-are you going to sue the Daily Prophet, sir?"

"No, I'm going to kiss them," he snarled.

"I could owl them too, sir … if you are adamant."

Tom pinned him with a glare. "Are you questioning me?"

"No, of course not!" the man squeaked. "It's just that your son –"

_"__He is not my son."_

"My apologies, sir. The _boy_ has already been taken to have his blood tested. The results have come back positive. He is, at least on paper, proven to be – er – your … you know."

Those tests could be fooled. It would take an impressive amount of magic and skill, but there were plenty of wizards he knew who could pull it off. The child was not his. It was simply not possible.

"The Daily Prophet has thousands of readers. It's a big company, sir. Perhaps it's not the best idea to engage them at court."

Tom was no fool.

They would lose the case.

It wasn't worth it.

He had, in short, been cornered by a mere child with wild claims.

There were a thousand ways in which he planned to make Harry pay.

Unbelievable.

This was unbelievable.

There was going to be a voting in a few months' time for the new Minister of Magic. Tom had had high hopes. It was ridiculous how easily said hopes were dashed. He felt like murdering someone right on the spot.

Regrettably only his secretary was in the room, and he needed him.

"Sir?" his secretary ventured.

"Yes?"

"There are a crowd of paparazzi outside this building, waiting for you to make an appearance," Charles said. "I didn't want to bother you with it, but they are getting impatient. Would you like me to have a word with them?"

He could feel a headache coming on.

Tom stood up, smoothed down his suit and turned on his heels. "No need," he said. "I'll deal with them myself. Clean up the coffee. And clear my schedule for the week."

"But sir –"

"Do it."

He disappeared through the door.

...

Harry's day was going great. Ruth Skeeter had approached him that morning with buttered buns and an expensive suit and a suggestion that they visit Tom Riddle's work building.

When they got there, Harry had been greeted with the delicious sight of no less than a hundred reporters, journalists, paparazzi and curious civilians, all anticipating the moment their favourite politician stepped outside to bombard him with questions.

By the looks of it, they had been waiting for ages in the heat.

So Harry had assumed that it was only polite for him to declare himself and quench their thirst for information. And if it happened to reduce Riddle's well-protected reputation to a pitiful ball of shrivelled oxygen, well, that couldn't possibly be his fault.

"Harry – may I call you Harry? – is it true that your father denied your existence even after you confronted him about it?" were only one of the few politer ones barked out at him.

Some of the ruder ones – rude for Riddle and entertaining for him – consisted of 'Don't you think that Tom Riddle's mistreatment of you shows, at best, his lack of responsibility and at worst, a complete animalistic disregard for the wellbeing of other fellow humans?'

Harry was willing to bet that particular reporter had been sent by Riddle's rival politicians.

"I don't think I'm the best judge of my father, since I don't know him all that well," was his answer. Let them take it how they will.

Yes, it was perfectly fair to say that his day was starting out great.

That was, until Riddle decided to make an appearance.

That git had brushed open the doors with a calmness no one else could have possessed and a pretty smile for those who screamed his name. He stepped out into the sun in a three-piece suit and glistening shoes.

Harry was a bit irritated.

It was as if none of this unnerved him in the least.

Riddle held out a hand, as if he could physically stop the interrogation. And, damn it, it actually worked. The crowd quietened down, as if they all collectively fell under his spell, and listened.

"Sir, is it true that this boy is your son?" someone cried.

And suddenly, Harry was being shoved to the front, where Riddle's smouldering glare threatened to melt him into a puddle.

The next thing he knew, Riddle was by his side and ruffling his hair. Harry wondered if he was about to be slaughtered.

"Mr Riddle, do you know where this child's mother is?" another demanded.

Riddle chuckled. Only Harry, whose ear happened to be mere centimetres from Riddle's mouth, heard the forcefulness and the strain.

Fake. Everything charming about this young Voldemort was fake.

"My mum –"

Harry winced, cutting himself off in midsentence, as Riddle's nails plunged into his shoulder. He half thought it would draw blood, but it did not even pierce the fabric of the suit Ruth had made him dress in. Harry writhed, and the hand tightened.

No one saw.

Huh. So Riddle could be extremely discreet when he wanted.

"I have no idea," Riddle said lightly. "To be honest, I'm not even sure it happened."

Cries of outrage.

"Because you were drunk?" a daring individual asked.

"No," Riddle said. Irritation laced his voice. "Because I would have remembered."

"But you didn't because you were drunk."

More shouts.

Harry felt Riddle tense beside him as he struggled to keep the crowd under control. "I don't like being accused."

About twenty journalists hurried to note down the exchange, afraid to miss out on a single syllable.

"Do you think that he is your son?"

Cameras flashed and blinded Harry.

"Perhaps," Riddle said diplomatically. "I can't be certain, but rest assured that I will find out."

Harry could hear the veiled threat directed at him.

Then, Riddle tipped his head and hissed into his ear, making Harry stiffen, "You caused a scandal. You are not my son, and I want you to know that I will not let you tarnish my reputation. I'm only thirty, for Merlin's sake, and you claim to be fourteen. It is disgusting."

Harry could not help himself. "You mean _you_ are disgusting."

Riddle's eyes blazed. "I will deal with you when we get home."

He couldn't help the shudder that ran through him. All the same, he smirked. "So I _am_ going to live with you."


	3. Chapter 3

What Happens to the Weak

It was by nightfall that Tom managed to extract himself from the journalists and organise his affairs at the Ministry, amidst whispers, nudges and giggles that soured his mood like curdled milk. Tom left his secretary in shock as he stormed out, nails digging into the back of Harry's neck.

He should have drawn blood.

Tom half-dragged Harry down the Ministry steps where he spun on his heels and apparated.

A moment later, he was blinking in horror as Harry doubled over with a retch. Tom did not have time to step back before bile hit his pristine leather shoes.

It made him feel nauseous himself.

_Merlin …_

When Harry glanced up at him, Tom could not see the faintest glimmer of apology. On the contrary, his grimace slid into a smug smile, a flash of teeth that had Tom actually biting his lips to stop himself from snapping out a spell.

"I'm sorry," Harry offered.

Tom did not see a need to reply.

The walk in the dark from his gardens to his manor seemed longer than usual. The cobblestone path stretched out ahead, elegant and winding.

Tom clenched his fists with mounting fury as Harry trailed after him. The footsteps echoed loudly in his ears and he could almost feel his wand burning a hole in its holster. It would be too easy to whip it out and blast the pest into oblivion.

By the time he reached his manor, Tom was nursing a murderous migraine and craving nothing more than a cup of warm tea. But there was still the business of his 'bastard son' to handle. It lingered on his mind, much like the way Harry lingered in the doorway.

In the dark, Tom could not tell if the boy was suddenly hesitant.

His irritation flared.

"Inside. _Now_."

All signs of timidity evaporated. As if intent on making him lose his temper, Harry shot him a smirk and strolled in like he owned the place. Tom's teeth grinded together when the he literally _kicked_ the door close with a filthy shoe. It left a mark on the polished wood and a bitter taste in Tom's mouth.

The next time the bastard – absolutely no pun intended – did that, Tom would bring out his wand and teach him a lesson on manners.

"I will assign you a guest bedroom," said Tom coldly. "You will not be staying long."

He snapped his fingers, and the dark hallways lit up as lights sparked to life. Under the glow of the chandeliers, Harry's eyes took on an almost triumphant gleam. A half grin played on his lips, and Tom had the distinct impression that he was _amused_.

A tide of dark anger crashed down, and it was only his impeccable restraint that stopped Tom from throttling him. He inhaled deeply, casting an eye over Harry.

With unruly hair and wide green eyes that were all _too_ innocent, Harry only seemed to be a teenager. Tom refused to lose his composure over an insignificant child who was only half his age.

"You look a little pale, father," Harry remarked brightly. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"What did you call me?" Tom stared at him, mouth curling in rising disgust. "No, no, don't repeat it."

Harry looked at him with a measure of innocent hurt in his eyes. Tom cringed inwardly at the display. Revolting. This was exactly the reason why he never considered children – didn't want to consider children.

"You will respect this manor, and you will respect me. This is my home. You shall _never_" – Tom tightened his lips – "kick my doors, and such displays will be dealt with personally by me. If you wish to be treated like a guest, you will conduct yourself as one. Break any of my rules, and you will find yourself out on the streets, no exceptions –"

"If you expel me to the streets, the media will have a field day with it," Harry said. "Scandals are always fun."

Tom ignored him. "You will keep out of my way. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Harry chirped. "But what if I don't wish to be treated like a guest? I guess I'll make myself right at home then."

Tom froze in his tracks. "Excuse me?"

Harry shrugged delicately. "I don't want to be a guest. I'd like to be your son, bastard or not. Since those are your rules for _guests_, I suppose there's no point in me listening to them. What would you like your _son_ to do? Or perhaps I can just go ahead and do the opposite of everything you just said?"

Tom brushed a strand of hair from his face. In the stress of the day, his robes were rumpled and his hair, he feared, was almost as untidy as Harry's. He needed to get this over as soon as possible and retreat for a bath.

"What do I call you?"

"Pardon?"

"What do I call you?" Harry said. "You don't want me to call you 'father'."

"You may address me as Tom."

Despite himself, he felt a flicker of dark humour. Harry must think he was thwarting a petty politician. The imbecilic child had no idea _who_ he was speaking to, and the snake pit he had just traipsed into. Tom could snuff the life out of him at any time he so chose. The only reason he was still breathing was because Tom chose to _let him_.

"You will keep out of my way."

"I'm okay."

"That," Tom gritted out, "was not a suggestion."

Harry blinked at him. "I wasn't joking either."

Tom's headache became a roaring fire.

Harry never realised that baiting the Dark Lord could turn out to be such a joy.

Watching the vein throb in Tom's left temple and his narrowing blue eyes, which would have cut Harry into shreds if they were physically able, made Harry feel irrationally inspired. The more Tom looked like he could slaughter him on the spot, the more Harry became tempted to wind him up.

It was all he could do to refrain from laughing in Tom's face. The smirks, though, were impossible to suppress. Oh, if only Hermione and Ron were here. Ron would make a joke about fraternising with the enemy. Delving into enemy ranks seemed too easy. Honestly, Harry had not expected everything to go so smoothly.

And _who knew_ Tom Riddle was so averse to having a child?

Several times, Harry was certain the young Dark Lord would unceremoniously blast him into a wall and throw him out the window. But while that might be appropriate for the Dark Lord, it would shipwreck his pretty politician career. Harry was sure it was the only thing that stood between him and his death. The only thing that kept Riddle at bay.

Regardless, Tom's rein over his temper was admittedly quite impressive. Voldemort had never displayed such fortitude. His style was usually to curse the offensive object into submission.

Harry could not help but wonder how long Riddle would last before his patience snapped and he treated him to a dose of the Cruciatus Curse.

After Tom showed him to his bedroom which, Harry noticed, was on the other side of the hallway and as far away from Tom's office as he could possibly be, Tom arched an eyebrow expectantly.

Harry made a mental note to explore the Dark Lord's office thoroughly and do some snooping when he was away on business. If Riddle thought Harry would play the part of the good, obedient boy, he was dreaming.

Harry had never claimed he was a decent guest.

The bedroom was large and cold, like everything else in the manor. The windows were open, the curtains were fluttering, and the gust of wind that whipped into Harry's face was as frigid as Tom's face. It was, all in all, very welcoming.

"Do you like it?" Tom gave him a sharp smile, more a flash of teeth than anything else.

"What if I don't?"

Riddle tilted his head. "All the rooms are identical. It is peaceful, and no one shall disturb you. I live alone. You will never find a manor more secluded."

Tom's smile became almost feral.

The unspoken threat sent the nerves on the back of his neck prickling.

"That's wonderful," Harry muttered.

It was anything but wonderful. Everything the young Dark Lord said was true. He doubted anyone would hear screams from within the manor. Harry was living alone with Tom, and Tom Riddle wasn't exactly known for his patience. That was putting it lightly. Harry's fingers went to his sleeve, where he carried his wand, for reassurance.

Harry wasn't a moron. When it really came to a duel, if the young Dark Lord was serious, Harry would be fortunate to escape with his life, let alone unscathed. He would stand as much of a chance against Tom as a matchstick would against a fire. Riddle could probably strike him down in one second and kill him in another.

"It is late," Tom said. He inclined his head towards the large bed in the centre of Harry's new room.

Slowly, Harry turned to face the Slytherin Heir.

"Will you make dinner?"

-0O0-

"Why do you not like children?" Harry asked as he scraped the salad Tom made onto his dish.

The sound of the fork against the fine china was ugly and shrill enough to make Tom seriously contemplate slamming his head into the wall. In the end, he decided it would serve no purpose except only worsen his headache and perhaps draw out a smirk from the teenager.

"Stop," Tom ordered.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Stop what?"

The fork scraped louder and more sharply.

Tom grimaced.

"Why don't you like children?" Harry repeated.

_This_ was why he didn't like children.

"They are irritating."

"Most people would say otherwise."

"I am not most people," he said tonelessly.

Tom took a sip from his tea and revelled in the sensation of the warm liquid running down his dry throat. Earl Grey made the way he liked it. Just the look of distaste Harry aimed at his teacup, Tom could ascertain the wretched brat was not his. Anyone who had _his_ blood running through their veins would not have such poor taste.

And the boy's table manners were _appalling_.

Tom hated it when people played with their food. Food was meant to be savoured and swallowed, not splayed out in a disgusting mess as if a bomb had exploded. And each time Harry opened his mouth, Tom was treated to the sight of half-chewed globs on his tongue.

It was something he could do without.

As Tom stared up into his ceiling, he could practically see the fabrics of his plan twist, tear, unwind and fall apart. It was rich how the future he paved for himself, the two lives he led, could be so easily disrupted by a mere boy.

The tea in his hand suddenly felt too cold.  
Tom set it on the table before he could shatter it.

Ever since Tom had first started carving out a path for himself as a politician, he had lied, manipulated and pulled the right strings until he crushed his opponents like pawns on a chess board and rose through the political ladder swifter than anyone had seen.

People wanted a charismatic politician, and Tom charmed them with his smiles. They wanted a clever politician, and Tom had never been accused of stupidity. They wanted a politician with new ideas – Tom intended to bring in a whole new era and crush the old. They wanted, they wanted. He was successful because he knew what they wanted, and he _knew_ that above all else, people wanted a responsible leader they could trust.

Having a bastard son at sixteen?

_That_ was neither responsible nor trustworthy. It imploded the public image that he had spent years crafting. As for refusing to claim his son even after Harry reappeared, the people would call him a cold-hearted bastard and cutthroat serpent for that.

Tom's eyes flashed with anger.

Harry was also a weakness to his _other_ life.

Amongst the ranks of his Death Eaters, Tom was known for his intelligence, power, ruthlessness and – above all – his lack of weaknesses, an armour crafted out of diamond. At least, that was before Harry appeared. The teenager was a chip in his armour.

Harry's relation to Tom, albeit a lie, weakened him. And weakness, in the eyes of his followers, was a chance to bring Tom to his knees and take his place.

Oh, Tom wasn't an idiot. He could see that he ruled them like a king because he had power and talent. This was how nature worked. Survival of the fittest. Even in the animal kingdom, it was the same. He was the alpha, but the alpha could also be replaced.

The strongest always led, and leaders who faltered and frayed were very quickly torn into pieces. Tom _absolutely_ refused to be like that.

If he brought a _son_ into the fray …

Tom's fingers twirled his yew wand, wood sliding between his fingers – in and out, in and out.

Having an emotional breakdown in front of his followers would probably be less damaging to his reputation. It was parading his weakness for all to see.

His status as all but a god in the eyes of the Death Eaters was because he hardly seemed human. By stripping himself of any association with the likes of emotion, Tom displayed himself to be invincible. Everything was a war of propaganda. Having a bastard child at the age of sixteen – Tom snarled in disgust – there was nothing more childishly, pathetically human.

Tom could imagine it already.

First his followers would see Harry and develop doubts. Once the seed of doubt was planted, the more ambitious and vicious of his followers would try to hurt him through Harry. Loyalty would fray, his authority would collapse - and eventually, the stupid child would end up dead. Tom couldn't care less about that, but if Harry died, his political career would die with him. And then Tom would be left with nothing. On one side, his Death Eaters would rise up against him, and on the other, he could be seen in the public eye as less of a negligent father and more of a murderer. Tracking Harry's death back to his Death Eaters would be all too easy and then ...

No. This simply would not do.

Harry looked at him, all innocence and oblivion.

His wand, attuned to his wrath, all but vibrated with heat in his hand.

Tom needed to talk to Abraxas.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I know I've been gone for long time and I still don't know when the next chapter will be. :) I actually can't believe I wrote this one when I'm right in the middle of my practice exams but you know - procrastination right? ;) - so here you are. _

* * *

Chapter Four

Harry had dared to ask him for a bedtime story. The smirk Harry wore as he stared at Tom from under batting eyelashes grated at his nerves. Tom exhaled. The boy was baiting him.

It reminded him, unpleasantly, of a conversation with Dumbledore back in his school days. Tom too had taken a malicious sort of delight in baiting Dumbledore. It had felt satisfying to strip away the old man's composure, layer by layer, watching him splutter as Tom waltzed off. But didn't that make _him_ Dumbledore? And Harry him?

Tom bit down on his cheek.

No, this was not good. The boy had only been here one evening and already – Merlin – already he was drawing comparisons between that pest and himself. No, he was not losing himself down this line. He was not about to lose his sanity.

He hacked out dry laughter.

Harry stared at him as if he was insane.

"Care to share?"

"No."

Tom draped a coat over his shoulders, turned on his heels and made for the door. Harry's surprise rolled off him in waves. Hmm, the boy wore his emotions on his sleeve. Another reason he could not be Tom's son.

"Go to bed."

"Uh, where are you going?"

Tom's hand was already on the door knob. He threw it open. Breathed in the chilly air. It helped with the suffocating feeling in his lungs. Calmed him. Tom did not like disgusting things in his home. It was his sanctuary, the one place he could relax. Last time he found a cockroach infestation in his kitchen, it had taken him two seconds to burn the entire cockroach family. Harry was rather similar to those cockroaches.

If he stayed here any longer, he was going to burn the boy – reputation be damned.

"Out."

As the door slammed shut behind him, Tom muttered a spell under his breath. A precaution. While he highly doubted that Harry would try anything tonight, it was always better to be safe than sorry. Harry would be sorry if he did try anything.

Tom had planned to apparate to Abraxas's manor, but he suspected that he would end up with his poor dinner on the pavement if he tried. Ah well, it was better to walk for a bit. Clear his mind.

The first raindrop fell on his face.

It was around midnight when Tom decided to apparate the rest of the way. That was how he found himself slipping in the mud that was Abraxas's lawn, landing on his hands and knees. He gritted his teeth, fingers curling around the blades of mud-splattered grass. His poor coat. It was a small mercy that no one was here to witness his humiliation.

How the mighty had fallen. It was ironic how he wanted nothing more to kick Harry out of his home – and yet it was he who ended up in the cold, reminiscing of the time when he had his home to himself.

Tom picked himself up, sweeping his muddied coat off with one hand, and knocked on Abraxas's door with the other.

Someone else might have felt reluctant about disturbing a man so late. Tom had no such qualms. Especially not now. Abraxas knew the price for having him as an acquaintance.

To Abraxas's credit, he did not have a seizure when he saw Tom dripping water over his doorstep. His eyes did, however, widen comically. Tom might have been amused if he were in a better mood. Abraxas, half undressed and standing in nothing but a bathrobe, looked horrified at the situation.

"Tom," he said finally.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Abraxas made a fumbling motion with his hands.

"Well, it isn't the best ti – Please, come in."

With a brisk nod, Tom strode inside. He saw Abraxas take a good, sidelong look at him. A soaked Lord Voldemort – a novelty no doubt. He must look ridiculously pitiful. He felt it too. Like some half-chewed, saliva-dripping mouse the cat spat up. The headache was killing him. Tom's nails dug into his palm until pain shot up his wrist.

_Composure._

"Would you like a change of clothes?"

Abraxas was paying too much attention to the wet, morose strand of hair sagging in front of his eyes. Tom felt a flash of irritation.

"Is there something on my face?"

Abraxas visibly blanched at his tone.

"No, my lor– I mean, that is – Tom."

_Oh_ and now his followers were refusing to address him by his rightful title? Tom's eyes narrowed. He thought he had taught them better respect than this. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Abraxas's shoulder. Malfoy took two consecutive steps back, nearly stumbling in his haste. Tom caught him by the arm.

"No. Stay. I didn't quite hear what you were saying."

"I didn't say anyth –"

"Come now," Tom said sweetly. "Say it. What did you call me?"

Abraxas coughed loudly. "Tom, listen, I can't right now because there's someone –"

Tom let go of his arm, drew back, and poured himself into Abraxas's favourite armchair with slow grace, legs stretched out in front of him. He folded his hands, fingers interlacing, and stared straight at Abraxas.

"Oh dear, you're acting impudent tonight, aren't you? Now repeat yourself. What. Did. You. Call. Me?"

Abraxas's eyes widened as Tom's voice dropped to a low whisper. Now he just needed to hear the '_my lord_' slide from his lips. Abraxas knew he meant business, knew that his temper was on a short tether tonight. He wouldn't –

"Tom. I called you Tom."

Distantly, Tom heard his hand slapping the wall. Enough was enough. He couldn't be losing control of his Death Eaters now this early in the game. Would they really turn their backs on him as soon as Harry appeared in the equation? Even Abraxas? Tom had always thought of him as his most loyal …

He drew out his wand.

"It is unfortunate that it has come to this," Tom said. "Still as they say, there is nothing like a good dose of the Cruciatus to help one sleep."

Except the last part of his sentence went unsaid when a busty witch, dressed in an absolutely ridiculous see-through night robe strutted into the room. A pout on her lips and a glass of champagne in her hands. And too-dark mascara on her eyelids.

Tom froze.

The witch blinked at him.

"I tried to warn you this wasn't a good time," Abraxas said helplessly. "Forgive me …"

The 'my lord' did not need to be said. If she had heard Tom addressed in such a way … Well, a bastard son was one scandal but being a Dark Lord was on a whole other level. It seemed as if Malfoy _had_ been rather occupied …

"I didn't mean to interrupt something so private."

The witch smiled at him. "It's perfectly all right. Tom Riddle, isn't it? I've heard so much about you. Especially now. He's such a charming young man, you. Pretty hair, _gorgeous_ green eyes. I'm not surprised he's your son. Still, children can be such a handful."

Tom couldn't find the energy to refute anything except rub at his temples.

And _that_ was when all the alarms he placed on his manor went off.

_Merlin. That brat._

"If you will excuse me," he said. "I need to get back."

This was a mess.

"Children _are_ a handful."

Barely able to keep his fury off his face, Tom turned on his heels and apparated. When he caught Harry, he was going make sure the boy learnt to never make trouble on his territory again. Harry couldn't believe it.

-0O0-

He had just been given free reign over Tom's mansion. The empty halls echoed with a dark, unspeakable history. The billowing of the wind against the windows sent chills down his spine. This was worse than the Shrieking Shack.

With Riddle gone, it seemed as if his manor had grown more sinister. Harry swallowed as he walked past through yet another corridor. There was a portrait that Harry had thought, at first glance, was Tom. But the nose was a little too sharp, the mouth a little too thin and the face older.

The hair was the same smooth black curls, and the eyes looked remarkably like Tom's. Harry found himself standing under it for far too long. Tom Riddle Senior. The man who abandoned his son and paid the price.

He had forgotten that murder had taken place here, not too long ago. This was where Tom Riddle slaughtered what remained of his family. Talk about creepy. His father … Grandparents … Harry shuddered at the memory that Dumbledore showed him. And now he was here alone – at Riddle's mercy.

He wrapped his robes tighter around himself. It was too bloody cold. He needed to get Riddle to warm this place up. There was a damn fireplace every room. The least he could do was bloody use it.

It was probably a bad idea to ignore Riddle this early on and make an enemy of the man. He didn't know how much time he had before Voldemort returned, but all the same – Harry burned to see Riddle's private office.

What harm could it possibly do?

According to Dumbledore, he was supposed to unearth all of Riddle's secrets, find all the skeletons in his closets – and Harry was willing to bet on his neck that there were a lot of skeletons – and bring Lord Voldemort down.

As far as Harry was concerned, the sooner he took action against Voldemort, the better. With that thought in mind, he made his way to Riddle's office.

The door gave way easily enough to the incantation Dumbledore had taught him. Harry darted into the room, blinking at the borderline OCPD neatness of the desk and the shelves. Well, it'd make his job easier. He would start with the drawers to see if Riddle had left any plans for his Death Eater pals.

There was, of course, a possibility that Riddle had left warding spells. Harry breathed a sigh of relief when he opened the first drawer and nothing happened. Perhaps Riddle hadn't had time to ward him off yet. Everything did happen rather suddenly.

It was when his fingers touched the paper file – an official ministry file, not a Death Eater one – that ropes appeared out of thin air and, with great brutal strength, lashed out at Harry. There was simply not enough time to dodge. He took the blow on his shoulder. His mind went white for a second and he couldn't quite hold back the cry that exploded from his lips. Something wet was sliding down his back.

He wouldn't be surprised if it had drawn blood. God, it _hurt_.

Tom's papers from the open drawer went flying. No, no, no.

Harry hurled himself up, scrambling for purchase. His wand - crap – there wasn't enough time to get it. He had to thwart the ropes and right the papers before Riddle came back. He had to.

A rope wrapped itself around his wrist, taut enough that no amount of struggling could get him free, and it lifted Harry bodily into the air so that he hung from his wrist and his hurt shoulder screamed at him. And then the rope, almost with a life of its own, flung Harry against the wall.

His head collided with a crack and his glasses slid off his nose.

Why the hell did Riddle's wards have to be so bloody aggressive?

No sooner had that thought entered his mind did the other end of the rope slash down at him again. It caught him on the thigh.

Harry choked on his own saliva.

_"__My, what a dilemma you've found yourself in."_

Crap.

Tom was gazing up at him with fury in his eyes.

"Do you want to know what happens to disobedient brats?"


End file.
